


my baby shot me down.

by SweetBirdi



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Fade to Black, Other, Partner Betrayal, Partners to Lovers, Unhappy Ending, this ship has a playlist because I'm a wreck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 06:38:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14785388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetBirdi/pseuds/SweetBirdi
Summary: Timber Castillo, the sixth courier, makes an unfortunately timed visit to his old partner in crime.





	my baby shot me down.

**Author's Note:**

> before you ask, yes I'll finish BTS before too long. Or, i'll try to. i'm really burnt out on league right now and FNV has taken a huge place in my heart.  
> enjoy!  
> if you want a link to the snake wine playlist, it's here on Spotify! https://open.spotify.com/user/lavenderbirdi/playlist/5SVvESn54qbiOVj6MgqbAC?si=b3N6wmq3QZSWN1VdeZkiBA

The doors to the Tops casino fly open, letting in a blast of heat to ruffle the hair and a sweep of dust to sting the eyes. Gamblers and Chairmen guards alike are caught by the loud bang of metal bar doors against the wall, some covering their eyes from the sudden onslaught of natural sunlight that washes the room free of its gentle golden mood lighting. In the rectangular glow of the opened door stands a figure with an Eyebot circling their head. The stranger pauses and scans the room. He lets the door swing shut behind him with an eased click that strains the rusted door stopper. The casino is relatively unphased by this brutal entrance, save for the few irate gamblers and the approaching Chairmen near the doorway. 

Timber ignores them. His footsteps cross the carpet sync with his heartbeat, a steady pounding of flesh, bone, and red-hot blood swaying to an undetected metronome. Timber couldn’t feel the cooling air within the Tops hitting him, like him passion for answers — or retribution. Blood? He couldn’t say — had carried within him the great intensity of the desert’s exterior. 

A chairmen guard stops Timber in his tracks, and with a peal of satisfaction Timber can read that he’s made him nervous. 

“Don’t mean to be a bother, since you’re clearly in a hurry.” he says, contradicting his actions. “But I’m going to need you to turn over your weapons while you’re here.” 

Timber studies his face. Young. Handsome. Uncomfortable. Timber grimaces.

“Fine.” Timber hands over a sizable, unusual plasma weapon, an impressive weapon for his shorter stature. The Chairman takes the rifle in two hands, pointing the barrel to the ground. 

“Thanks, you can get this when you—”

“Where’s Benny.”

The Chairman nearly jumps out of his skin. 

“Benny?”

“You fucking heard me, you overgrown doorstop.” Timber snarls. “Where’s Benny.”

“He’s— in the back of the casino.” 

Timber passes by the Chairman with a sharp shove of his shoulder. ED-E trails in his wake, pulling the gazes of curious and critical gamblers in as Timber makes his path towards the casino’s furthest wall. Timber hears the whispers of how dirty and beaten up the robotic companion seems until they see a flash of obscene pattering. 

The mojave sun blasts an inferno in Timber’s head, filling him with white-hot noise of adrenaline and the familiar feeling of desperate survival. The distant frown on Benny’s face from above Timber’s grave floats in through the static and before Timber knows it, he’s being stopped by two bodyguards. 

“What in the goddamn..?” Benny says, and the very sound of his voice fills Timber with a blinding emotion that makes him want to spit. 

“You fucking snake, you goddamn gutless pig!” Timber yells between the arms of the bodyguards. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Benny’s eyebrows are bent in a frown and he takes a wary step back. “Slow your roll there, Tee, I’m sure we can work this out.”

“Could have talked it out before you filled my head with lead, you fucking punchline.”

“You turned out fine, didn’t you?” Benny jokes. Timber visualizes ripping those pedicured eyebrows off his face. “Why don’t you take a second to collect yourself, it’s not very becoming of you to snarl like a rabid dog.”

“Who gives a shit, you tried to kill me!” 

“You ain’t the first, baby, and won’t be the last.”

Timber feels his anger start to rot in his stomach. ED-E floats overhead, beeping quietly in response to Timber’s aggravation. He knows where his .22 is, he’s got his switchblade. It could end right here, Timber could get his revenge right now. But the bodyguards would kill him before Timber could even make sure Benny’s brains met the floor. 

Benny sees that Timber doesn’t make a move for any of the weapons and he smiles. It fills him with a sensation so heated it feels like their lower intestine is boiling. Benny can see that, too. That occasional ache Timber has behind his eyes crawls down their throat like a sheet of ice, and hits that fire in an explosion of steam. 

“You don’t get to call me baby.” Timber says. 

“Well,” Benny adjusts his cufflinks. “old habits die hard, don’t they.” 

Glass shatters and it’s either somewhere really far away in the casino or Timber’s hearing things again. 

With a hard thrust, he attempts a blind lunge at Benny. The retaliation from the Chairmen overpowers him easily, and the sickening thud from the impact against the floor rattles their brain. He smears his face against the carpet, hoping the blood gushing from his bitten tongue is not a stain that will ever lift. 

Timber hears the folding of expensive cotton and lifts his head to see Benny taking a knee. 

“And to think, it all started when you left.” 

Timber twists his neck to spit blood onto Benny’s shoes, who takes a sharp step back and raises his foot in quiet disgust. 

“Alright, alright.” he sighs and Timber lays his head against the floor, unable to move with the force of some filthy Chairman’s knee in his shoulder blade. “Take Teacup here--” Timber thrashes at the pet name. “--to the Presidential Suite. We’ll talk there.” 

The Chairman on Timber’s back does not release his hold until Benny’s footfalls have completely faded from earshot.

 

Timber’s had a little while to calm down — the Chairmen have assured he’s basically stranded within the Tops casino. Guards keep an unscrupulous eye on both the courier and the Eyebot as the duo traversed to and from the opposite walls in the Presidential Suite. To that snake’s credit, Timber is allowed to leave the master bedroom without much in the way of protest. But he knows Benny; he knows this is all for  _ Benny’s _ safety and that this way, he has a complete wrangle on Timber’s movement. Timber pauses his activity — defacing the presidential suite in the form of keying up the dining table — to look up at ED-E. The Eyebot floats silently by his side, nary a care in the world. 

“ED-E.” he calls out. “Open weaponized detail.”

ED-E chirps and gives a distinct pause of radio static before relaying the current status of its laser. Frowning in thought, Timber turns to wrifle through his belongings. Perhaps the few spare parts from an old laser pistol could enhance its power, maybe he could make a break for it. 

The door to the suite opens with a soft  _ click-slide-click _ just as Timber is unscrewing the barrel of the laser pistol. He looks up just long enough to catch a glimpse of a checkered sleeve. He ducks his head back down to their task. 

Benny locks the door behind him and stands across the room. He watches Timber for a second, the simpering grin replaced with a somber neutral stare. Timber says nothing. 

“May I sit?” Benny asks. 

“On a cactus, sure.” Timber replies. Benny exhales sharply in a way that could be excused for a laugh. 

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Mmm.”

Benny walks over slowly, and the heels of those expensive shoes are muffled by the thick carpeting on the floor. Timber had been trying to think of how best to design a dye to fuck its coloring up permanently, in case Benny lived long enough to offer the suite to someone else. Benny sits across the table from Timber and eyes Timber’s handiwork.

“They let you keep that?” he asks. Timber tosses a screw haphazardly behind his shoulder and remarks with bitter amusement how Benny helplessly watches it clatter against the cabinet. 

“Don’t have any cells. Couldn’t fire it even if I wanted to.” 

“ _ If _ you wanted to?” Timber’s still not looking, but he can hear that familiar grin. The laser pistol’s plastic-and-metal grip creaks against the force of Timber’s grip. “Are we making baby steps towards an actual, non-lethal conversation?”

“Not on your life.”

“Or yours, huh?” 

Timber snorts and returns to his task. 

“... What, ah, what’s goin’ on here? With all this?” Benny asks.

“Rigging ED-E’s laser so it can cut through doors. And skeletons, hopefully.” Timber offers this information like he’s reading off a manual in the  _ Killing Your Ex _ weekly magazine.

“Aha. Still big on sciencey stuff then, huh?” 

“Takes a lot to survive out here.” Timber tosses away another bolt and opens the pistol enough to get a good look at its interior. “Maybe you should try reading a book for once.”

“Ah, hate readin’ those science books. There’s no pictures.” Benny jokes. “You know me better than that.” 

“I don’t think I do, actually.” Timber says. 

There’s a distinct silence that follows, only filled by the empty sound of the gun’s pieces being pulled apart and examined. Benny is still. ED-E’s static has been drowned out in the two men’s minds as simple background noise. 

They can both feel it — that this time, maybe Benny’s smooth talking isn’t going to get him out of this. Benny’s been in the doghouse more than enough times, but he’d been able to put on that little act with the smile and that old smile. But nothing he can do will be able to fix this. 

He slowly exhales a sigh and folds his hands on his knees

“...Listen, kitten, it’s—”

Benny is met with a neon-green spigot from the intestines of the energy weapon in his face that Timber just barely holds back from throwing it at him. Their eyes meet and Benny puts up his hands in surrender. He offers a smile. 

“You’ve still got such pretty eyes, Tee.” 

“You can’t call me that anymore.” Timber snarls. “No  _ kitten _ , no  _ Tee _ , nothing.”

Benny’s smile falls into a pitying grimace. Timber feels it burn into his skin, like all those days of walking the desert alone trying to find Benny were suddenly crawling back. The blast of sand from each direction, every cazador sting, every night stalker bite, every deathclaw swing is digging into them. 

Benny keeps watching, and now that they’re eye to eye Timber can see he hasn’t aged a bit. Figures, the cushy little mongrel probably rarely ever sees the sun. He doesn’t look young, but he looks healthy and content. Handsome, even. That’s one of the only things that hasn’t changed about Benny. But Timber knows better. Timber knows this isn’t the same Benny. There’s no charming voice crack when he gets nervous, there’s no quiet fidgeting with the safety on his pistol, there’s no awkward ‘how’s my hair look, kitten?’s, no high pitched laugh. The Tops bred this out of Benny as soon as he got its thrown. 

Timber feels an ache in his chest from the wound Doc Mitchell couldn’t find, couldn’t fix. 

“I’m just askin’ you to hear me out.” Benny says. “I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me a lot of things, Benny.”

Benny pauses, just scanning Timber with his eyes. Once again, he is still. 

“Can you stop threatening me with a glowstick, baby?” 

Timber lobs it at him. Benny ducks just in time and it flies across the Presidential Suite. 

“Okay, that’s—” Benny looks up, and straightens his lapels. “One way to do it, I guess.” 

“No baby, either.” 

“That’s not even one for you. That’s just something we all say.” Benny cooly replies. “Ain’t you ever been around us and hear that?”

“I care very little about your clubhouse of clowns.”

“Ah. Well, now you know. And now we can talk.” 

“I don’t want to.” Timber motions for ED-E to float closer, taking it into his hands. He begins to examine the laser. It’s a short, stocky disc and antennae, extending down and out of ED-E’s frame. With a short huff of frustration, he realizes that whatever Enclave made ED-E out of was before the current energy pistol production had begun. None of these parts would fit. But he continues to hold ED-E’s humming, warm figure. 

“You can hug a robot, but you won’t talk to me.”

“ED-E never shot me in the head for doing my fucking job.” 

“Timber, it’s not like that.” Benny says quietly.

“It’s not?” Timber barks, and his sudden tension makes ED-E chitter with alarm. “It’s fucking  _ not? _ What is it  _ like _ then, Benny?” 

Benny’s eyebrows knit into a slight glare as Timber’s defensive side rears its frightening head. 

“If you’d let me fuckin’  _ explain,  _ then I could tell you. But you’re not one for listenin’ to me, are you?”

Timber feels his heart stab into his lungs, and his words become wispy and winded. ED-‘s worried beeping gets more erratic as it feels Timber’s fingers begin to tremble. 

“Your explanations have never been good enough.” he croaks. 

“Neither have yours.”

“I didn’t want to be in the town run by the man who destroyed my home!” 

“We could have been great, Timber!”

“We  _ were _ great, Benny!” 

It’s the final straw. Timber’s voice is shaking uncontrollably and if he continues, he might crush poor ED-E. Benny looks conflicted, with that handsome face of his pulled into a grimace — he looks like he might be sick. The two of them are silent for a long while, it seems, with only Timber’s calming breaths and ED-E’s hum to focus on. 

“We could have been so much more.” Benny finally says, with a tone of defeat. “You know? We could have run this city.”

“I didn’t want to.” Timber says, feeling raw. “I was fine just living in Freeside. I was fine how we were.”

“And you left.”

“Because I couldn’t stand what you’d become.” 

Timber stares pointedly into Benny’s eyes. He looks right back. 

“I missed you, kitten.” Benny admits quietly. 

Timber’s stomach churns with a sickening mixture of dread and genuine, true warmth; the kind they haven’t felt in years. The kind that he was convinced had left his body when Benny fired that gun. The kind only Benny’s hands could bring him. 

“Don’t call me that.” Timber’s voice breaks into a whisper. His heart is starting to betray his head again, just like it always did when it came to Benny. 

“...” Benny sighs through his nose. 

Timber finds himself curling up; his knees pull together and his arms wind closer around ED-E’s spherical frame. He stares at the scraps of metal on the table, focuses on the warped reflection of Benny in the convex surface of the pistol rather than his actual form. He stays there for a long time, and for a second he looks as though he might reach out to touch Timber. He can almost feel it — a sensation they’d grown so accustomed to, they’d pictured it; dreamt of the sensation of Benny’s fingers, carding through the curls and knowing just how to pull without catching the strands in his ring. 

It aches. 

Benny’s reflection stands and takes a weary step back. He straightens his tie and clears his throat.  

“If you ever come around to it…” he trails off, and Timber knows he’s rephrasing in his mind. “To talking. I’ll be in my suite.”

Timber continues to stare at the dismembered pistol until those softened heel clicks make a fair distance and the large oak door opens and closes with a  _ click-swing-click _ .

  
  
  


The Tops 13th floor is silent. All patrons are either in the bar, in the casino, or asleep. Or they’re Benny, turning the Platinum Chip over in his hand, pondering just how the hell this all came to be such a shitshow. The data on the Chip, the prosperity of the Strip, the vindication of seeing Mr. House finally eat the sand under his castles… it will be worth it. 

It would be, at least, if he’d gotten through to him. 

It’d been so long since he’d seen Timber like that. Even with Maria pointed right between those hazel eyes, alive like the tinders of a forest fire, but with just enough sweet to lure a man through all that spice, he held his ground. There were no tears when Benny shot him, no shaking hands, no quaking voice. Only despondent surprise and thick, choking rage, the kind that fills up the throat and drowns one as they try to swallow. 

No wonder Timber wouldn’t listen to him. But he couldn’t give up now, just because the sixth courier  _ happened  _ to be Timber, just because Timber  _ happened  _ to survive the shot, just because Timber  _ happened _ to find him, get onto the Strip, just before he started planning for his breach on Cottonwood Cove… it was all bad luck. 

A dull ring sounds in Benny’s ears. High pitched, dizzying, enough to turn his stomach. He puts the Chip back into his pocket and puts his head in his hands. 

He told the Chairmen to let Timber leave the Presidential Suite, which means one of two things is going to happen. 

Either Timber is going to leave — sneak out of the Tops and barge into the Lucky 38, ready to reveal Benny’s location and receive orders on what to do from House. To which he will probably spin his own little web of tricks, because Benny knows Timber a little too well to think he’d ever listen to House, even if he did allow him inside the forever-closed casino. House ruined Timber’s childhood, robbed him of a home. 

No, Timber would wait until Benny had destroyed House through whatever is in the bunker on the other side of the river before making his move to disable house, and then Benny himself. Or Benny first. 

The other option is that he’s going to come into Benny’s suit, hold-out weapon in hand, and kill Benny where he sits on his bed. His blood will paint the walls, and Timber will lose nothing from it. He’ll make sure the mistake he made will not be replicated. Benny’s body will fall limp against his sheets and carefully manicured comforter, the pillows will run red with the inside of his head. 

And Timber will walk away with the Chip and never look back. Because that’s what he deserves. Benny deserves what he’s going to receive from Timber — the rage, the heartache, the fear, the hurt. It’s going to culminate into a .22 bullet right into Benny’s temple. 

And yet…

And yet, he wonders, what of a third option? 

If Timber really had calmed down, miraculously, enough to talk to him? If Timber comes in here, unarmed, quiet, if a little reserved? If he willingly listens to his plan, could think about  _ working  _ with him. A cut of the deal, a part of his empire. They could rule the town. Take House down together, avenge the people of Vault 21. Share a room like they used to, it’d be like the old days. Timber could smile at him across the pillows, something Benny hadn’t seen in a year. 

Benny’s chest fills with a queasy sensation that leaves him feeling unbalanced again. Timber’d never want to actually listen. He knew how he felt, how he’d felt for  _ years _ , and still he was able to pull the trigger like it was nothing. He even said it was rigged from the start. God, what a bad line. He was really planning on not having to live down saying some bullshit like that, but of course Timber had miraculously survived.

The door opens. 

Benny looks up and there’s Timber Castillo, ex-partner in crime, courier, Vault Dweller, revenge seeker. Childhood friend, teenage something-more-than-friend. 

With a numbing realization, Benny sees that this is the end, and he couldn’t have wished for a more beautiful funeral.

With a far more clumsy moment of clarity, Benny notes Timber is not wearing the duster he walked into the casino with. It’s a dusty nightshirt and pair of shorts. He’s not unarmed, and they make no business hiding it; a stolen dress cane from the Ultra-Luxe dangles lifelessly in his hand. Benny could almost laugh. All he can muster is a half-hearted chuckle.

“Quite the murder weapon, Colonel Mustard.” he says. His voice sounds distant. 

Timber says nothing. 

“Good choice of clothes, though I would have picked out something to match.” he continues. “Didn’t you get a dress from the White Gloves or anything?”

Timber says nothing.

“I only mention it because your legs look great. Being a courier’s been real good to you.”

Timber takes a silent set of steps closer. The carpet eats the sound away, a silent death march. 

“You’ve let your hair grow out...” Benny says. He’s softening. He can’t help it. 

Timber’s getting closer. His eyes are unreadable. 

“I always liked it when you did that.”

Timber’s in front of him now, standing between Benny’s knees, and now Benny recognizes this look — 

“I always liked it when you smiled, too.” 

— he used to see it all the time —  

Timber drops the cane. 

“And still such pretty eyes, kitten.” 

— It’s  _ hunger.  _

Timber gives Benny enough time to blink before he’s straddling his lap, hands dedicated to either side of his face, holding him in place. Timber is as hot as the Mojave sun in Benny’s hands as he reflexively moves to hold his waist, tilt his chin down. The same old song and dance. Timber feels just how they used to. His rough skin, tanned by the heat of the world, his dry hair, bleached straw-blonde in places from exposure, and his taste like the best mixture of drugs any fiend could ever buy. 

Benny almost can’t believe how fast he and Timber crash together, molded by the time spent apart, shaped by the desert winds. Timber does not hesitate (and Benny can’t complain) to slide his hands down Benny’s neck and into the checkered jacket, slipping it off his shoulders, down his arms. His fingers ghost through the sleeves of his shirt, leaving searing trails against Benny’s flesh. He lets out a sigh against his mouth, turns his head into the kiss, tries to pull Timber in closer. Timber, as if on command, obliges and pushes Benny back onto his elbows, tossing the checkered jacket to the floor. Benny’s grasp on his hips moves under the nightshirt, hiking it up just enough to toy with Timber’s skin. His thumb rubs in a neat little circle, causing Timber to shift their leg ever so slightly into the touch. He really hasn’t changed, Benny thinks, because he’s used that trick on him plenty of times in the past. Timber pushes Benny back further, propped up on his arms and his seat in Benny’s lap. Benny feels himself melting against Timber’s hips as he experimentally, tentatively grinds against them. His breathing hitches into a long exhale and Benny doesn’t fight the smile of satisfaction and rolls again. Timber breaks the kiss with a gasp of air and, without looking Benny in the eye, he tries to slide away from him. The disconnect in emotion and the blatant lack of physical contact leaves Benny feeling chilled, so he secures Timber by his arm and hoists him back up. He kisses Timber slowly, trying to force him to calm down. For a moment, it works; Timber’s still in his hands, and it feels like Benny is holding something more than just a person — molten gold, or the sun itself. A charmed viper. Every memory is pressed into Timber’s skin, condensed into a star close to supernova. They’re going to explode, eventually. With all this tension, Benny’s surprised they haven’t already. His grip on Timber’s arm loosens for just a second, and Timber uses it to strike back to their thoughtless, starving process. His hand leaps to Benny’s face to anchor him in closer, and Benny’s thoughts fade from his mind. All he knows is Timber, all he wants to know right now is Timber. 

He aches, selfishly, for him. Starved for for months after using him as a stepping stone towards his own victory, for longer after chasing him away from the Strip.

But it didn’t matter. Like a miracle, Timber is here, in his arms. 

Too bad Benny has to let go before he drowned completely. 

 

When Benny wakes up, Timber’s fast asleep. From the doorway of the bedroom, his figure is outlined softly by the covers, his shoulders gently rising and falling to the rhythm of sleep. Benny walks around to his side (neatly made now, pillows fluffed, cover tucked) and sits. Timber is facing into the bed, resting his head at an odd angle, with his forehead out. Is that how Wastelanders slept, face jutting out in case of … sandstorm? Benny couldn’t know, but he didn’t use to sleep like this. 

His breathing is even and calm, hands pulled up to his face, legs curled up. Nothing else about how he sleeps has changed from when they were just teenagers sharing a room in some shithole in Westside. Or Freeside. They moved around a lot. 

Timber’s hair rustles with his breath, and without considering it, Benny brushes it back and away. His knuckles brush up against ribbed skin, like scales on a gecko, and he pulls back instinctively. In the dim lighting, it’s hard to see, but there’s no mistaking. Benny wouldn’t forget that night, and there was no hope of Timber forgetting it either. 

The bullet passed just shy of his hairline and didn’t get much farther. Right under his bangs lies a terrible looking scar, just now starting to heal after stitches. Benny’s chest tightens at the sight. 

‘You grew your hair out’, he’d said. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like Timber’s appearance wasn’t an immense source of pride for him. 

He curses himself under his breath. He knows Timber too well. He tears his eyes away from the scar and down to Timber, cradled against the pillows and under the duvet. The tightness worsens as he studies his features; worn by the sun and the sand, but still everything about Timber carries a rugged regality. His long eyelashes, his wide hands, long torso. From the day they met and onward, Timber had been angelic to look at and sinful to behold. 

How’d he ever let this leave? 

He runs his hands through Timber’s coarse hair one more time, letting his fingers hover above the scar, praying to whatever God may be up there to forgive whatever the hell this all has become. 

He picks up the checkered jacket from the floor, checks the pocket for the Platinum Chip, puts the note on the pillow with a cheeky after-dinner mint, and leaves the Tops Casino. 

  
  


The people of Goodsprings are generally a hospitable, welcoming lot. Trudy greets the non-threatening newcomers with a polite ‘good morning’ and a drink, Sunny’s always first in the welcoming committee, and the doors of the two stores are always open. They’re the least threatening town on this side of the river, they claim — Goodsprings, named for more than just the water. The farmers love it, settlers sit for hours in the saloon just laughing and enjoying their time as a community together. Ain’t the richest town, nor the safest, but it sure beats the hell out of places like Nipton or Novac. 

And still, a ghost haunts these parts.

No one saw them arrive, but the rumor has it that the Securitron rolled up to Doc Mitchell’s house in the dead of night, only the sound of its wheels rolling through the sand and rock up the hill. The body in its arms made no sound, they say, but was limp and as light as a feather. 

Doc Mitchell did his best fixing them up, of course. Took the dear man all night trying, and by the time dawn broke he’d found himself successful. A 9mm bullet stuck just shy of the brain, that’s what the good doctor says. 

The town didn’t know of the ghost until dawn broke and the creature opened their eyes. The town didn’t know until then, because the ghost was silent. 

Shortly after the ghost woke up, the doctor strolled out of his home in dismay, so ashen-faced he might have been the lit end of a cigar. He sits in the saloon, takes the drink Trudy offers him with ease, and when asked about his condition he only says that a kid’s been shot and they might as well be a ghost.

Word spreads quickly through towns that are centered around a saloon, as any cowboy knows. Before long, people are passing by the good doctor’s house to meet the newcomer, to give them well-wishes, offer a place to stay or a hot meal. Or even just to gawk, to see the undead courier for themselves; see their split skull! Chet said he saw ‘em pass across town one night on the way to and from the cemetery, and that Doc Mitchell didn’t fasten the top of their head on quite right, so their forehead flapped in the wind like a flag. Ghost stories by Chet lead to survival gunner stories from Sunny, who claimed they must be some unkillable soldier from the NCR come back to get the Powder Gangers up at the correctional facility. 

But no matter how many rumors spread, how ridiculous they got, none of them actually saw the ghost for months. Every day, the good Doc Mitchell would come back and find them curled up on the mattress by the dusty window, huddled under a moth-eaten blanket and clinging to the loaned Vault 21 suit as though it were the only thing keeping them alive after Victor scrounged them up from the dirt. 

Timber’d grown up wonderfully. Doc Mitchell remembers his small family from the vault well. No parents, but a loving uncle and little sister-figure he’d grown to care for. Timber was one of the brightest children in the vault, always seeming to have something snippy to say. He even picked up a few tricks from Doc himself. Though he didn’t express much, Timber did leave a small impression on the good doctor.

He’d grown up fine, too. Healthy, as far as he could tell — the puffball of dark blonde hair grew out into a strange patchwork of sand and copper and relaxed to thick, dry waves; worker’s hands, calloused and well-worn; enough mileage on their feet and legs to know they weren’t kidding about courier work. But his eyes were dark, his body lethargic in ways it hadn’t been before Doc had explained how they were found. 

Doc had been able to fix his head, but whatever was keeping him bedridden for hours at a time was beyond his capabilities. 

And so the ghost of Goodsprings lay in that bed for days at a time, allowing himself to be roused to eat a meal offered by Trudy or to take part in Doc’s bath, only to return to that bed. 

Sometimes, Doc could hear the sound of a tuning radio coming from the patient’s quarters, like Timber was hopelessly trying to find something in the soundwaves. He’d tinker with it for hours before drifting off to the static-filled lullaby of Mister New Vegas.

But the night before he left, Timber found a song — 

_ Maybe you're cold but you're so warm inside  
_ _ I was always a fool for my Johnny  
_ __ For the one they call Johnny Guitar. 

— And he stuck to it. And try as he might, that radio was old, crooked, half-broken, and couldn’t hide the sound of his tired sobs.


End file.
